by Ed McBain
The lightning still flashed across the sky, and the thunder Still growled in response, but there was no rain.
The cool relief the rain had brought lasted no more than ten minutes. At the end of that time, the streets were baking again, and the citizens were swearing and mumbling and sweating.
Nobody likes practical jokes.
Even when God is playing them.
She stood by the window when the rain stopped.
She swore mentally, and she reminded herself that she would have to teach Steve sign language, so that he'd know when she was swearing. He had promised to come tonight, and the promise filled her now, and she wondered what she should wear for him.
"Nothing" was probably the best answer. She was pleased with her joke. She must remember it. To tell to him when he came.
The street was suddenly very sad. The rain had brought gaiety, but now the rain was gone, and there was only the solemn grey of the street, as solemn as death.
Death.
Two dead, two men he worked with and knew well, why couldn't he have been a streetcleaner or a flagpole sitter or something, why a policeman, why a cop?
She turned to look at the clock, wondering what time it was, wondering how long it would be before he came, how long it would be before she spotted the slow, back-and-forth twisting of the knob, before she rushed to the door to open it for him. The clock was no comfort. It would be hours yet. If he came, of course. If nothing else happened, something to keep him at the station house, another killing, another ...
No, I mustn't think of that.
It's not fair to Steve to think that.
If I think of harm coming to him...
Nothing will happen to him ... no. Steve is strong, Steve is a good cop, Steve can take care of himself. But Reardon was a good cop, and Foster, and they're dead now, how good can a cop be when he's shot in the back with a .45? How good is any cop against a killer in ambush?
No, don't think these things.
The murders are over now. There will be no more. Foster was the end. It's done. Done.
Steve, hurry.
She sat facing the door, knowing it would be hours yet, but waiting for the knob to turn, waiting for the knob to tell her he was there.
The man rose.
He was in his undershorts. They were gaily patterned, and they fitted him snugly, and he walked from the bed to the dresser with a curiously ducklike motion. He was a tall man, excellently built. He examined his profile in the mirror over the dresser, looked at the clock, sighed heavily, and then went back to the bed.
There was time yet.
He lay and looked at the ceiling, and then he suddenly desired a cigarette. He rose and walked to the dresser again, walking with the strange ducklike waddle which was uncomplimentary to a man of his physique. He lighted the cigarette and then went back to the bed, where he lay puffing and thinking.
He was thinking about the cop he would kill later that night.
Lieutenant Byrnes stopped in to chat with Captain Frick, commanding officer of the precinct, before he checked out that night.
"How's it going?" Frick asked.
Byrnes shrugged. "Looks like we've got the only cool thing in this city."
"Huh?"
"This case."
"Oh. Yeah," Frick said. Frick was tired. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and all this hullabaloo made him tired. If cops got knocked off, those were the breaks. Here today, gone tomorrow. You can't live forever, and you can't take it with you. Find the perpetrator, sure, but don't push a man too hard. You can't push a man too hard in this heat, especially when he's not as young as he used to be, and tired.
To tell the truth, Frick was a tired man even when he was twenty, and Byrnes knew it He didn't particularly care for the captain, but he was a conscientious cop, and a conscientious cop checked with the precinct commander every now and then, even if he felt the commander was an egghead.
"You're really working the boys, aren't you?" Frick asked.
"Yes," Byrnes said, thinking that should have been obvious even to an egghead.
"I figure this for some screwball," Frick said. "Got himself a peeve, figured he'd go out and shoot somebody."
"Why cops?" Byrnes asked.
"Why not? How can you figure what a screwball will do? Probably knocked off Reardon by accident, not even knowing he was a cop. Then saw all the publicity the thing got in the papers, figured it was a good idea, and purposely gunned for another cop."
"How'd he know Foster was a cop? Foster was in street clothes, same as Reardon."
"Maybe he's a screwball who's had run-ins with the law before, how do I know? One thing's for sure, though. He's a screwball."
"Or a mighty shrewd guy," Byrnes said.
"How do you figure that? What brains does it take to pull a trigger?"
"It doesn't take any brains," Byrnes said. "Unless you get away with it."
"He won't," Frick answered. He sighed expansively. He was tired. He was getting old. Even his hair was white. Old men shouldn't have to solve mysteries in hot weather. "Hot, ain't it?" Frick said. "Yes indeed," Byrnes replied.
"You heading for home now?"
"Yes."
"Good for you. I'll be taking off in a little while, too. Some of the boys are out on an attempted suicide, though. Want to find out how it turns out. Some dame on the roof, supposed to be ready to jump." Frick shook his head. "Screwballs, huh?"
"Yeah," Byrnes said.
"Sent my wife and kids away to the mountains," Frick said. "Damn glad I did. This heat ain't fit for man nor beast."
"No, it's not," Byrnes agreed.
The phone on Prick's desk rang. Frick picked it up.
"Captain Frick," he said. "What? Oh. Okay, fine. Right." He replaced the receiver. "Not a suicide at all," he said to Byrnes. "The dame was just drying her hair, had it sort of hanging over the edge of the roof. Screwball, huh?"
"Yes. Well, I'm taking off."
"Better keep your gun handy. Might get you next"
"Who?" Byrnes asked, heading for the door.
"Him."
"Huh?"
"The screwball."
Roger Havilland was a bull.
Even the other bulls called him a bull. A real bull. He was a "bull" as differentiated from a "bull" which was a detective. Havilland was built like a bull, and he ate like a bull, and he screwed like a bull, and he even snorted like a bull. There were no two ways about it. He was a real bull.
He was also not a very nice guy.
There was a time when Havilland was a nice guy, but everyone had forgotten that time, including Havilland. There was a time when Havilland could talk to a prisoner for hours on end without once having to use his hands. There was a time when Havilland did not bellow every other syllable to leave his mouth. Havilland had once been a gentle cop.
But Havilland had once had a most unfortunate thing happen to him. Havilland had tried to break up a street fight one night, being on his way home at the time and being, at the time, that sort of conscientious cop who recognized his duty twenty-four hours a day. The street fight had not been a very big one, as street fights go. As a matter of fact, it was a friendly sort of argument, more or less, with hardly a zip gun in sight.
Havilland stepped in and very politely attempted to bust it up. He drew his revolver and fired a few shots over the heads of the brawlers and somehow or other one of the brawlers hit Havilland on the right wrist with a piece of lead pipe. The gun left Havilland's hand, and then the unfortunate thing happened.
The brawlers, content until then to be bashing in their own heads, suddenly decided a cop's head would be more fun to play upon. They turned on the disarmed Havilland, dragged him into an alley, and went to work on him with remarkable dispatch.
The boy with the lead pipe broke Havilland's arm in four places.
The compound fracture was a very painful thing to bear, more painful in that the damned thing would not set properly and the doctors were forced to rebreak
the bones and set them all over again.
For a while there, Havilland doubted if he'd be able to keep his job on the force. Since he'd only recently made Detective 3rd Grade, the prospect was not a particularly pleasant one to him. But the arm healed, as arms will, and he came out of it just about as whole as he went into it— except that his mental attitude had changed somewhat.
There is an old adage which goes something like this: "One guy can screw it up for the whole company."
Well, the fellow with the lead pipe certainly screwed it up for the whole company, if not the whole city. Havilland became a bull, a real bull. He had learned his lesson. He would never be cornholed again.
In Havilland's book, there was only one way to beat down a prisoner's resistance. You forgot the word "down," and you concentrated on beating in the opposite direction: "up."
Not many prisoners liked Havilland.
Not many cops liked him, either.
It is even doubtful whether or not Havilland liked himself.
"Heat," he said to Carella, "is all in the mind."
"My mind is sweating the same as the rest of me," Carella said.
"If I told you right this minute that you were sitting on a cake of ice in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, you'd begin to feel cool."
"I don't feel any cooler," Carella said.
"That's because you're a jackass," Havilland said, shouting. Havilland always shouted. When Havilland whispered, he shouted. "You don't want to feel cool. You want to feel hot. It makes you think you're working."
"I am working."
"I'm going home," Havilland shouted abruptly.
Carella glanced at his watch. It was 10:17.
"What's the matter?" Havilland shouted.
"Nothing."
"It's a quarter after ten, that's what you're looking sour about?" Havilland bellowed.
"I'm not looking sour."
"Well, I don't care how you look," Havilland roared. "I'm going home."
"So go home. I'm waiting for my relief."
"I don't like the way you said that," Havilland answered.
"Why not?"
"It implied that / am not waiting for my relief."
Carella shrugged and blithely said, "Let your conscience be your guide, brother."
"Do you know how many hours I've been on this job?"
"How many?"
"Thirty-six," Havilland said. "I'm so sleepy I could crawl into a sewer and not wake up until Christmastime."
"You'll pollute our water supply," Carella said.
"Up yours!" Havilland shouted. He signed out and was leaving when Carella said, "Hey!"
"What?"
"Don't get killed out there."
"Up yours," Havilland said again, and then he left.
The man dressed quietly and rapidly. He put on black trousers and a clean white shirt, and a gold-and-black striped tie. He put on dark blue socks, and then he reached for his shoes. His shoes carried O'Sullivan heels.
He put on the black jacket to his suit, and then he went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. The .45 lay on his handkerchiefs, lethal and blue-black. He pushed a fresh clip into the gun, and then put the gun into his jacket pocket.
He walked to the door in a ducklike waddle, opened it, took a last look around the apartment, flicked out the lights, and went into the night.
Steve Carella was relieved at 11:33 by a detective named Hal Willis. He filled Willis in on anything that was urgent, left him and walked downstairs.
"Going to see the girlfriend, Steve?" the desk sergeant asked.
"Yep," Carella answered.
"Wish I was as young as you," the sergeant said.
"Ah, come on," Carella replied. "You can't be more than seventy."
The sergeant chuckled. "Not a day over," he answered.
"Good night," Carella said.
"Night."
Carella walked out of the building and headed for his car, which was parked two blocks away in a "No Parking" zone.
Hank Bush left the precinct at 11:52 when his relief showed up.
"I thought you'd never get here," he said.
"I thought so, too."
"What happened?"
"It's too hot to run."
Bush grimaced, went to the phone, and dialed his home number. He waited several moments. The phone kept ringing on the other end.
"Hello?"
"Alice?"
"Yes." She paused. "Hank?"
"I'm on my way, honey. Why don't you make some iced coffee?"
"All right, I will."
"Is it very hot there?"
"Yes. Maybe you should pick up some ice cream."
"All right."
"No, never mind. No. Just come home. The iced coffee will do."
"Okay. I'll see you later."
"Yes, darling."
Bush hung up. He turned to his relief. "I hope you don't get relieved 'til nine, you bastard," he said.
'The heat's gone to his head," the detective said to the air. Bush snorted, signed out, and left the building.
The man with the .45 waited in the shadows.
His hand sweated on the walnut stock of the .45 in his jacket pocket. Wearing black, he knew he blended with the void of the alley mouth, but he was nonetheless nervous and a little frightened. Still, this had to be done.
He heard footsteps approaching. Long, firm strides. A man in a hurry. He stared up the street Yes.
Yes, this was his man.
His hand tightened on the .45.
The cop was closer now. The man in black stepped out of the alleyway abruptly. The cop stopped in his tracks. They were almost of the same height. A street lamp on the corner cast their shadows onto the pavement.
"Have you got a light, Mac?"
The cop was staring at the man in black. Then, suddenly, the cop was reaching for his back pocket. The man in black saw what was happening, and he brought up the .45 quickly, wrenching it free from his pocket. Both men fired simultaneously.
He felt the cop's bullet rip into his shoulder, but the .45 was bucking now, again and again, and he saw the cop clutch at his chest and fall for the pavement. The Detective's Special lay several feet from the cop's body now.
He backed away from the cop, ready to run.
"You son of a bitch," the cop said.
He whirled. The cop was on his feet, rushing for him. He brought up the .45 again, but he was too late. The cop had him, his thick arms churning. He fought pulling free, and the cop clutched at his head, and he felt hair wrench loose, and then the cop's fingers clawed at his face, ripping, gouging.
He fired again. The cop doubled over and then fell to the pavement, his face colliding with the harsh concrete.
His shoulder was bleeding badly. He cursed the cop, and he stood over him, and his blood dripped onto the lifeless shoulders, and he held the .45 out at arm's length and squeezed the trigger again. The cop's head gave a sidewards lurch and then was still.
The man in black ran off down the street.
The cop on the sidewalk was Hank Bush.
Chapter SIXTEEN
sam grossman was a police lieutenant. He was also a lab technician. He was tall and angular, a man who'd have looked more at home on a craggy New England farm than in the sterile orderliness of the Police Laboratory which stretched almost half the length of the first floor at Headquarters.
Grossman wore glasses, and his eyes were a guileless blue behind them. There was a gentility to his manner, a quiet warmth reminiscent of a long-lost era, even though his speech bore the clipped stamp of a man who is used to dealing with cold scientific fact.
"Hank was a smart cop," he said to Carella.
Carella nodded. It was Hank who'd said that it didn't take much brain power to be a detective.
"The way I figure it," Grossman went on, "Hank thought he was a goner. The autopsy disclosed four wounds altogether, three in the chest, one at the back of the head. We can safely assume, I think, that the head shot was the last one f
ired, a coup de grace."
"Go ahead," Carella said.
"Figure he'd been shot two or three times already, and possibly knew he'd be a dead pigeon before this was over. Whatever the case, he knew we could use more information on the bastard doing the shooting."
"The hair, you mean?" Carella asked.
"Yes. We found clumps of hair on the sidewalk. All the hairs had living roots, so we'd have known they were pulled away by force even if we hadn't found some in the palms and fingers of Hank's hands. But he was thinking overtime. He also tore a goodly chunk of meat from the ambusher's face. That told us a few things, too."
"And what else?"
"Blood. Hank shot this guy, Steve. Well, undoubtedly you know that already."
"Yes. What does it all add up to?"
"A lot," Grossman said. He picked up a report from his desk. "This is what we know for sure, from what we were able to piece together, from what Hank gave us."
Grossman cleared his throat and began reading.
"The killer is a male, white, adult, not over say fifty years of age. He is a mechanic, possibly highly skilled and highly paid. He is dark complected, his skin is oily, he has a heavy · beard which he tries to disguise with talc. His hair is dark brown, and he is approximately six feet tall. Within the past two days, he took a haircut and a singe. He is fast, possibly indicating a man who is not overweight. Judging from the hair, he should weigh about 180. He is wounded, most likely above the waist, and not superficially."
"Break it down for me," Carella said, somewhat amazed— as he always was—by what the Lab boys could do with a rag, a bone, and a hank of hair.
"Okay," Grossman said. "Male. In this day and age, this sometimes poses a problem, especially if we've got only hair from the head. Luckily, Hank solved that one for us. The head hairs of either a male or a female will have an average diameter of less than 0.08 mm. Okay, having only a batch of head hairs to go on, we've got to resort to other measurements to determine whether or not the hair came from a male or a female. Length of the hair used to be a good gauge. If the length was more than 8 cm., we could assume the hair came from a woman. But the goddamn women nowadays are wearing their hair as short as, if not shorter than, the men. So we could have been fooled on this one, if Hank hadn't scratched this guy's face."
